


A Surprised Seaman

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Princess Bride (1987)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-19
Updated: 2008-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1633628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A classic tale of swordplay on the high seas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Surprised Seaman

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing this. I hope you enjoy reading it and that it makes your Christmas just a little bit merrier.   
>  Thanks to The Ned for unending support!
> 
> Written for Tacky Tramp

 

 

Westley's head was throbbing. That was his first conscious thought. His second was that he shouldn't move. Not yet, anyways. He tried to block out the pain as he tuned into his surroundings. The surface beneath him was cold and slimy. It took a minute to realize the surface was wood. He could hear sloshing and felt the swaying movement of a ship. So he was still at sea; that was a small comfort. Very small, but Westley would take what he could get. Low groans came from every direction, as well as the clinking of chains. Westley could hear orders being shouted from above by a First Mate and the stomping of the seamen as they performed their assigned tasks. 

He decided it was safe to sit up and shifted to place his hands flat on the floor. The intention was to push him up to sitting, but the first tiny movement of his head sent waves of pain and nausea through his body. Westley bit back a moan and decided that perhaps he would stay where he was for awhile longer. He used that time to take an inventory of his body, feeling out each ache and pain. His legs and arms were slightly sore and felt somewhat like jelly, but he didn't think there were any broken bones. As he moved his attention to his abdomen, memories of his attack came flooding back. The ship taking him to America had been attacked. Westley had tried to fight, but was overtaken by two mangy-looking pirates. One held each arm while a third punched Westley in the stomach and rib cage, undoubtedly breaking several ribs in the process. When he could no longer stand without help, the pirates let Westley go and he fell into a heap on the deck of the ship. A tall man dressed entirely in black with a scarf covering his head and an eye mask stepped into view. Westley's eyes landed on the long, silver blade hanging from the man's belt. It occurred to Westley that this was the Dread Pirate Roberts, who never left survivors. Westley was filled with despair as he realized that he would never see his Buttercup again. As his body sagged further, he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head and the world went black. 

Westley decided it would be safe to open one or both of his eyes as long as he didn't move his head. Thankfully, the light in the room was rather thin. He was facing a wall that had a long bench attached to it. At the end of the bench were iron bars extending from the floor to the ceiling. He was in the brig on the ship of the Dread Pirate Roberts. Westley continued evaluating his injuries in an effort to avoid the thought that he may only have hours to live. He slowly lifted a hand and gingerly touched the lump on the back of his head. He could feel dried blood crusted in his hair and the bump throbbed under his touch. Westley inhaled sharply as a new wave of pain crashed over his consciousness, bringing with it the welcoming black. He came very close to giving into the black, but thoughts of his love, Buttercup, pushed him through the pain. 

Westley groaned as he pushed himself up to sitting, gritting his teeth against the pain. His chest heaved as he gulped lung full's of air to fight the urge to pass out. The more air and oxygen he took into his body, the clearer his vision became. The panting slowed as he looked around his cell. There were other prisoners in the brig; that's where the groans had come from earlier. There were five others, each kept in their own cell. Two were chained to the wall, one was lying on the floor like Westley, and the last two were on the benches that served as beds. Westley knew that he would prefer the floor. 

A clang surprised Westley and caused renewed throbbing in his head. He muttered a curse as he turned toward the sound. Ten shipmates were making their way through the brig to the cells, ropes dangling at their sides. They stopped in pairs at each cell and Westley winced at the squeal of doors being unlocked and opened. The two burly seamen roughly hoisted Westley to his feet, jerked his arms behind him, and tied his wrists together. He was shoved out of the cell and towards the stairs leading to the upper deck. He tripped on a step and lurched forward, slamming his shins on the steps. One of his captors, and Westley really couldn't tell which it was, hauled him back up and continued to push up the stairs. 

Westley had to squint in the sunlight when they reached the deck. Several swabs stopped their chores to watch as the prisoners walked past. Westley heard a whip crack and the swabs ducked their heads and continued pushing the dirty water around the deck with their mops. Suddenly, Westley's captors jerked him to a stop and kicked the backs of his knees, forcing him to fall on his already sore and bloodied knees. He did not make a sound; that would have given them too much satisfaction. The boards beneath him began to vibrate as Roberts walked behind the line of kneeling men. He stopped behind the man on Westley's right, Rickman was his name. Westley watched out of the corner of his eye as Rickman's head was wrenched by, a fistful of his hair in Roberts' steel grip. 

"Why should I spare your life?" Roberts asked, spitting on Rickman's face as he enunciated every syllable. 

"I have a wife, sir, and th-three children-"Roberts placed his foot in the middle of the man's back and shoved him forward. 

"You are a sniveling mess and I have no use for a weakling such as yourself." Roberts said as he turned away. "Pitch him over!" 

Two seamen dragged Rickman kicking and screaming to the side of the ship and hauled him overboard. Right then and there Westley decided that was not how he would go. He would not die. He would survive with dignity. 

No matter what Roberts said to the other three prisoners, no matter how loud their screams, no matter how cruel his taunts, Westley never looked anywhere but straight ahead. He knew his turn would come. 

Westley felt the cold, sharp metal of Roberts' sword under his chin, tilting his head back. Roberts' gray eyes were as angry as the sea before a storm, and they stared into Westley's blue ones like he hoped he could find Westley's weakness in them. But Westley would not yield. 

"What's your story? Why should I deign to let you survive when I've so easily picked off the others without as much as a second thought?" Roberts looked down at Westley with an amused look on his face. 

"If there were no survivors," countered Westley. "Who would tell the stories?" 

Roberts did not take kindly to Westley's brazen remark. He felt the hilt of Roberts' sword hit sharply into his skull in the same location as to the previous knot. But Westley still would not make a sound. He continued to stare into Roberts' eyes until the pirate turned away. 

"Please," Westley began. "Please, I need to live." 

Roberts' turned, intrigued. None of the hundreds of men he had killed had ever said please. "Why?" 

"True love," Westley answered simply. 

Roberts' attention was focused solely on Westley. 

"My love waits for me to come back for her." Westley stared at the open sea as he spoke. "She is more beautiful than any other in the world, with eyes as clear blue as the afternoon sky. Her faithfulness will endure forever, but I must get back to her." 

Roberts continued to examine Westley. Besides the one word, there hadn't been a note of pleading in Westley's voice; just a simple explanation. Roberts found it refreshing. 

"Alright, Westley," Roberts said decisively, moving towards the stern. "I've never had a valet. We'll try it if you like. I'll most likely kill you in the morning. Lock him back up." 

Westley managed to hide his surprise as his guards directed him back to his cell. At least he had one more day. 

This continued, day after day, for six months. On the first day of the seventh month, Roberts showed up at the door to Westley's cell. 

"C'mon," Roberts said briskly as he unlocked the cell door. "It's time you learned how to be a real mate." 

Now it was Westley's turn to be intrigued. 

He followed Roberts through the bowels of the ship to the Captain's Quarters. In his six months on board the ship, Westley had never been anywhere except the brig and the upper deck and never without irons and an escort three times his size. He was taken from his cell in the brig every other day and shoved up the stairs to the main deck. There he would perform chores such as swabbing the deck and checking the rigging. The latter was actually an extremely dangerous task, especially on a blustery day. When the Captain was on the deck, lower ranked seamen worked with him; when he wasn't, Westley did them by himself, taunted and whipped by the others. Westley didn't know what else was needed to qualify him as a "real mate" and wasn't entirely sure he wanted to find out. 

On this day, Roberts led Westley past the stairs and down a long hallway. The sound of snoring filled the space as they walked past the crew's sleeping quarters where the men who served on the night shift were dead to the world. As the snoring faded behind him, Westley was overwhelmed by delicious scents coming from what could only be the kitchen. Normally, the food wasn't this appetizing, but the ship had docked two days ago and the cook had fresh supplies. Not that Westley would ever taste that food. The seaman charged with delivering his meal would never allow that. 

Roberts walked through an open door at the end of the hallway and stepped to the side, indicating that Westley should enter the room as well. Westley walked to the middle of the room and did a slow turn, taking in décor. The wood on the desk and matching chairs was dark, complemented by crimson fabric. There was a four post bed in the back corner. All those features were dwarfed by the wall of windows. The room was situated at the back of the ship and had windows from end to end on the back wall. Westley walked to them and stared out at the endless expanse of water. He squinted his eyes, trying to discern where the water ended and the sky began. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. 

"Are you hungry?" Roberts asked, jolting Westley back to his surroundings. 

"Uh...yes. Quite," Westley answered, surprised at the soft tone of Roberts' voice. All the anger and hate that he had heard on the deck were absent. 

"I had to cook prepare lunch for two," Roberts explained, gesturing to a table spread with chicken, potatoes, vegetables, bread, and a steaming apple pie. Westley's mouth watered at the sight and he wondered how the display had escaped his attention. He blamed it on the view. 

Westley sat opposite Roberts at the table. He had never wanted to rip apart a chicken so much in his life. 

Roberts nodded at Westley, encouraging him to fill his plate. "Go ahead; I've seen what they've given you. You must be starving." 

"Why are you doing this?" Westley asked before moving to take some food. "Why are you being, well, nice?" 

Roberts laughed heartily. "I don't know. You were right though, on your first day. If I killed everyone, who would spread the stories and support my reputation?" 

Westley stared at Roberts, unsatisfied with his vague answer. 

"Hmmm. Alright, then. I decided that you had been in that cell long enough. You haven't made any moves to harm any of the crew, no matter how much they've abused you." Roberts laughed when Westley raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I know what they've done. I can't say that it will stop either. It probably won't matter; I'll most likely kill you in the morning. You might as well die satisfied." 

Westley held back a laugh as he tore a drumstick from the chicken and piled his plate with potatoes and bread. Satisfied was the last thing Westley would be until he was reunited with his Buttercup. He was stalled momentarily as memories of stolen moments flooded his mind. The sound of their panting in the quiet of the barn, desperate hands shoving aside clothing, the smell of her sweat as their bodies moved together and he filled her as they climaxed together. The memories made his heart clench and started a familiar tingle significantly lower. He cleared his throat and focused on the food on his plate and the man sitting with him. 

"So you brought me here for a decent last meal?" Westley couldn't make sense of Roberts' actions. 

"That and a little personal amusement. I thought I would teach you a little sword fighting, in case I decide to keep you alive." Roberts had already finished his plate and was waiting for Westley before moving on to the pie. 

Westley didn't realize his thoughts had preoccupied him for so long. He was so confused by Roberts. He seemed too polite for a man with his reputation. Westley nodded in response and continued eating. It was the best food he had eaten in the past six months. He intended to enjoy every bite, not only because he might die tomorrow; because he wasn't sure how long Roberts' generosity and good humor would last. It would probably be the same table scraps as before when he was returned to his cell, so Westley reached for seconds. 

When they had each eaten their fill, Roberts pushed back from the table and walked to his weapons cabinet. He took out a sword and handed it to Westley. Roberts removed a second sword and buckled it to his own waist. He allowed Westley a few minutes to move around, twisting and turning to acclimate to the weight of the sword and the feel of the sheath against his leg. 

"Alright," Roberts said, whirling to face Westley. "Come to this part of the room, away from the mahogany. I spent far too much on that desk to have it scuffed and marred from a fencing lesson." 

Westley walked to face Roberts in the middle of the room. He hoped it was a manly walk; a strut, really. He was so preoccupied with his movements that he failed to notice the glint of amusement in Roberts' eye. 

"Listen carefully," Roberts began. "If you don't take anything away from these lessons, remember what I'm about to say. It's the most important step in fencing. Are you ready?" 

Westley nodded, unsure of an appropriate verbal response. 

Roberts continued with grave seriousness. "The most important move you can make is to first draw your sword." 

"Excuse me?" 

"It takes longer to draw your sword than it does to take a hit from your opponent," Roberts spoke with eternal patience. "It's smarter to draw before you engage the opponent than to take what could potentially be a debilitating hit." 

The statement made much more sense after Roberts explained it. Westley waited for him to continue, but Roberts only raised his eyebrows. Westley flushed with embarrassment as he realized that Roberts meant for him to practice. "Um...should I say anything?" He asked hesitantly. "Is there a signal to the opponent?" 

"No," Roberts laughed. "It's just taking the sword out of its sheath. No signal needed." Westley found it hard to concentrate under Roberts gaze but was determined to give an adequate performance. He wrapped his right hand around the cold steel of the sword hilt, grabbed the sheath with his left, and pulled the sword from the sheath. The tip of the blade caught on the sheath, causing it to jerk from the leather cover and nick Westley's left hand. He jumped in surprise and watched the blood begin to seep from the wound.   "Oh dear," said Roberts, walking over to examine the injury. "We should wrap that up." 

Westley thought that there was a lot of blood coming from such a small wound. Roberts pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around Westley's hand. Roberts held the hand for a split second longer than necessary before walking back to his position on the other side of the room. Ordinarily, Westley wouldn't have noticed, except, for some reason, Roberts touched sparked on Westley's skin and left a tingle that remained long after Roberts moved away. Westley attributed the feeling to his intense frustration and longing for Buttercup. 

"You can practice that more later," Roberts cleared his throat before moving on. "The only thing more important than drawing your sword is balance. You don't want your opponent to be able to knock you over like a feather. No matter what guard or stance you are using, the position of your feet will be the same. Also, by paying attention to your opponent's feet placement and movements, you can anticipate their attack and counter accordingly." 

Roberts walked to stand next to Westley to demonstrate and was so close that their arms were touching. Westley was again distracted by the tingle generated by the contact. He had to remind himself to focus on Roberts' words and not the ripple of his bicep or the bulging muscle of his thigh. 

"Keep your feet apart at shoulder width at all times. When you move, never move your feet closer together. Always move so your legs spread apart. This is key for keeping your balance." Roberts demonstrated the proper stance and Westley mimicked the position. "The more of the sole of your foot that touches the ground, the more secure your balance will be. When you move, slide your foot rather than lift it. You're more vulnerable when you lift your heel and stand on the ball of your foot." 

Westley watched Roberts move as he explained the technique. His legs were toned and Westley could see the muscles ripple as he demonstrated both proper and improper technique. It was hard to tear his eyes away. When it was his turn, Westley gave a much more successful demonstration than he had with the sword. He could feel Roberts' eyes as he watched, first concentrating on Westley's legs and the moving higher, lingering over his mid-section and finally returning to the legs. Roberts returned to Westley's side and they moved together. They did this for several minutes, until both were glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Only Westley was panting. 

"How is it that you've come this far in life without knowing the basics of fencing?" Roberts asked as Westley caught his breath. "What do you do that doesn't require simple defense?" 

"I'm a farm boy," Westley answered. "I've worked on the family farm of my love, Buttercup." 

"I see. What made you leave if she's your love?" 

"Money." Westley shrugged. "I need more to provide for Buttercup and build a home for us, so that we can be together. Otherwise, I wouldn't have dreamt of leaving." 

"And I came along and ruined everything," Roberts nodded. "I can't promise you'll continue your quest." 

"Then why bring me in here, why try to teach me anything?" Westley asked angrily. 

"I told you, I needed some entertainment. Shall we continue?" With that, Roberts ended the conversation, irritated that Westley wanted more information. What had happened to being a captive, serving your purpose, and keeping your thoughts to yourself? That's what he would have done. 

Westley narrowed his eyes and shrugged at Roberts. He, too, was irritated. 

"We'll go over Middle Stance and then you'll return," Roberts said as he moved to Westley's side again. "This is the foundation of all guards and moves in sword fighting. Stand as we discussed with your blade centered at your lower abdomen with the tip raised at a forty-five degree angle, aimed at your opponent's chest, throat and face. From here, you will be able to cut, thrust or jab." Westley thought his stance mimicked that of Roberts, but one look at his face told him he was wrong. He adjusted his body, hoping to correct himself, but Roberts only shook his head. 

Westley held his breath as Roberts stood behind him and placed his right hand on Westley's, his left on Westley's arm, and the toes of his feet to the heels of Westley's. From there, he adjusted Westley's stance to match his own. Westley could feel the pirate's body pressed against his own, from the muscles in his abdomen to the bulge in his knickers and the swell of his thighs. Roberts placed Westley's right hand and sword in the proper position low on his abdomen, well below the waist of his pants. He placed his left hand flat on Westley's stomach for balance as he began to move his feet as they had practiced before. Roberts' grip tightened on Westley as he guided him through a basic thrust. 

As they moved, Westley's heart was pounding in his chest. He tried concentrating on the movements, even thinking that this training could help him survive to be reunited with Buttercup, but nothing worked. All he could focus on was the feel of Roberts' arms around him, their bodies pressed together. His mind was filled with images of what it might be like to repeat this scenario without cloth between them. He closed his eyes and attempted to control his breathing, embarrassed that his thoughts were becoming physically evident. His eyes flew back open when he realized that the breath on his neck was quickening like his own and Roberts' had tightened his grip. 

Westley turned his head slightly so that he could look back at Roberts. In a blur, the pirate turned him around roughly, fisted his hands in Westley's shaggy hair and pulled him in closer. The two men looked in each other's eyes, seeking permission to continue. Whatever he saw gave Westley the courage to grab Roberts' shoulders and close the space between them. Their lips met, hesitant at first, but the groan from Westley's throat lit a fire from the spark between them. Roberts tugged on Westley's hair as his lips moved roughly over those of the younger man. He ran his tongue along Westley's lower lip and applied pressure to the opening of him mouth, seeking entrance. Westley yielded quickly, opening his mouth and guiding Roberts' tongue in with his own. 

Roberts pushed Westley across the room until he was leaning against a wall. He pressed every inch of his body to Westley's, eliminating any remaining space between them. Westley tasted salt on Roberts' lips from hours on the deck of his ship. His hands fisted in the pirate's hair and pulled to tilt his head back. Westley moved his lips to Roberts' jaw, down his neck to his collarbone. Roberts' gave a low, quiet moan as Westley ran his tongue back up and roughly took his lips again. 

Wanting to explore, Westley moved his hands to Roberts' shoulders. They continued down the pirate's back, scratching and grabbing at fabric. When he reached Roberts' hips, Westley's hands slid around and down, grabbing ass and roughly pulling him closer, desperately seeking a release. Roberts responded by bucking his hips, smiling as Westley moaned into his mouth. Suddenly, he broke the kiss and backed away. Westley gasped when the contact was broken and had no time to react further, as Roberts spun him around to face the wall. Roberts' hands came around and slid up Westley's shirt, feeling the taut muscles of his abdomen. He bucked against Westley again, and this time it was Roberts' turn to groan as Westley clenched his ass in response, changing the feeling of the contact ever so slightly. Westley's laugh turned into panting as Roberts' fingertips began to slide, centimeter by centimeter, past the waistband of Westley's pants. 

At the sounds of three sharp knocks on the door of the Captain's Quarters, Roberts sprang back, moving quickly and quietly across the room. He picked up his sword and Westley's, tossing the latter, hilt first, towards Westley. 

"Cap'n?" Westley caught the sword smoothly as the First Mate requested entrance. 

Westley assumed the Middle Guard he and Roberts' had been practicing before. Roberts stood across from Westley and answered that the Mate could enter. Both men were eternally grateful that their tunics came to mid-thigh, long enough to cover the evidence of their...altercation. "You asked to see me, Cap'n," he asked, standing in the doorway. 

"Yes," Roberts turned to face him. "Seeing as Westley here is my new valet, I think he should be moved from the brig, don't you?" 

"Yes, sir. Of course. Do you wish for him to bunk with the crew, sir?" The First Mate looked more than a little concerned at that prospect. He'd gotten to know Westley some and thought highly of him. He also knew of the crew's feelings toward him and wouldn't trust them alone with him at night. 

"By my sword, not at all," Roberts said with feeling. "As a valet, he should be nearby at all times. He will sleep in the room there, connected to my quarters." The Mate nodded as Roberts gestured to a closed door that evidently led to separate sleeping quarters. Westley had assumed it was one of many closets. 

"Escort him back to the brig while the room is prepared. I will go on deck and instruct the crew as to appropriate behavior toward Westley," Roberts held his hand out for Westley's sword. No sense sending him to the brig with a weapon. "Not that it would matter much. I'll most likely kill him in the morning." 

 


End file.
